About the Book
Sugar and Scars is not a book that announces itself loudly. It arrives the way truth often does, quietly, almost hesitantly, and then stays. It is a collection born from private moments, written without an audience in mind, shaped in the spaces between living and reflecting. These poems were never meant to be performed or explained. They were meant to be held.
At its core, Sugar and Scars explores the delicate coexistence of tenderness and pain. It recognizes that sweetness and suffering are not opposites, but companions. The book moves through grief, memory, longing, and recognition with restraint, allowing silence to carry as much weight as language. Each poem feels like a small room the reader can step into, close the door behind them, and breathe.
Rather than offering answers, Sugar and Scars offers presence. It does not rush the reader toward healing or resolution. Instead, it honors the experience of being where you are, exactly as you are, and discovering that others have stood in similar places before.
What first pulled you into writing Sugar and Scars?
Sugar and Scars is not just a book to me. It is a fragment of my dawns and dusks, a small but honest piece of myself. I did not begin writing it with the intention of sharing it with anyone. These poems were written quietly, for myself, and they felt far too personal, so intimate that I never imagined they could belong to another reader.
In those early moments, the writing was an act of survival rather than creation. It was a way of making sense of what could not be spoken aloud. Each poem existed as a private reckoning, something I returned to only when I felt steady enough to face it.
That perspective began to change when I met other writers and poets and listened to their stories. Some were older than me, some younger, but all carried their own histories of grief, resilience, and becoming. Through them, I realized I was not alone. I am only a tiny part of an enormous world, and yet our experiences echo one another. We hurt in similar ways. We laugh in similar moments. Beneath it all, our souls feel remarkably alike, even as they live in different vessels.
With that understanding, I slowly began sharing my work. Each act of sharing felt vulnerable, almost frightening, but it also felt necessary. Finding readers who connected with the poems gave me the courage to believe these words could exist beyond me. That is how Sugar and Scars was born, not as a project or ambition, but as a quiet act of trust.
When a reader closes Sugar and Scars, what do you hope lingers with them?
I want my readers to understand that they are not alone in their grief, and that whatever they are going through, everyone on this earth, past, present, or future, has had to go through something similar.
Grief can feel isolating. It convinces us that our pain is singular, that no one else could possibly understand its shape or weight. I hope this book gently disrupts that belief. I hope it reminds readers that pain is one of the most shared human experiences, even when it feels unspeakably personal.
More than anything, I want everyone to find a soft place, a home, in my book, in between these pages. A place where they do not need to be strong, or articulate, or healed. A place where they are allowed to sit with what they carry and feel less alone while doing so.
When you are not writing, where do you most feel like yourself?
My favorite time of the day is midnight. It’s when I reflect on the day that has passed and the one to come. The world feels much quieter then.
There is something about that hour that feels honest. The expectations of the day have fallen away, and the next day has not yet arrived. In that space, I can think clearly, without urgency or performance.
My small ritual is staying awake until midnight, simply to think and ponder. It is a time of listening, of letting thoughts surface and settle without judgment. That stillness shapes my writing more than any formal routine ever could. It is where many of the poems in Sugar and Scars first began, not as lines on a page, but as feelings allowed to exist.
The Heart of the Work
What makes Sugar and Scars resonate is its refusal to rush. The book understands that healing is not linear and that grief does not obey timelines. It allows contradiction to live on the page, sweetness beside sorrow, hope beside ache.
Kalindi Kri’s work reminds us that writing does not always need to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes, the most meaningful words are the ones written for no one in particular, and shared only when they are ready.
This is a book for readers who move slowly through pages. For those who read late at night. For those who have loved deeply, lost quietly, and are still learning how to carry both.
Want more? Visit Kalindi and Sugar and Scars today!
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